Comfort in the Mystery
by Annerosa
Summary: Meredith Grey figures out that to fix, she has to break first. MeredithDerek.


Author's note: This is my first "Grey's Anatomy" story. I've written lots of "24" junk, but because this is a new fandom, I think it's a good idea to mention that English isn't my native language.

The song "Talk to Strangers" by Charlotte Martin inspired this story. Please review, but please be gentle. My skin isn't as thick as I'd like it to be yet.

**Comfort in the Mystery**

_So I'll go talk to strangers_

_And I will love too fast_

_And I'll burn so bright I'll run out of light_

_And I won't last_

In reality, she has always tried to be a good girl. When she was a teenager, she wanted to be that girl who fell in love with her high school crush and stayed with him for the rest of her life, but what she wanted and what she did were two entirely different things.

She had been sixteen, exactly, her limbs a little awkward and his body too lean and marred by the side effects of puberty, but he had whispered a few confessions of love, and she had wanted to feel – just to feel. So his shirt had easily slipped off and her hesitation had been slight before she was shimmying out of her panties. His kisses had been tender, his lips tasting of toothpaste and trying too hard, but in the moment, it hadn't mattered.

Afterward, she had felt hollow and sorely disappointed, but instead she shrugged and pretended that everything was okay. Their relationship, the one she had naively hoped would last till she turned 90 and her hair was gray and she cried at his funeral, ended abruptly when he left for college, and she was left at home with her mother, trying to figure out exactly when this void inside her had grown so big.

Somehow, she has tried to avoid the clichés, tried to avoid sticking a bumper sticker reading "fatherless, abandoned and unloved" to her forehead reading, because that isn't who she is. She is strong, she is thriving and she knows she'll someday become a damn good surgeon.

A few drinks in a bar don't change that. After all, she just turned 21 the day before yesterday, spending the afternoon in a secluded room with her mother, listening to all the reasons why she really wouldn't make a good surgeon, and spending the night out partying with her friends, trying to tell herself that the hollow feeling was passing. Really.

So she shifts on her seat, acutely aware of the fact that she has just been asked to show her ID and annoyed at the taste of the martini in front of her.

"Can I buy you a drink?"

She turns around to see a stranger smiling at her; his smile lopsided and his one tooth a little crooked. But he's fairly good looking and the seat next to her is empty and drinks aren't too cheap.

"Sure."

"Live in Seattle?" he asks, making contact with the bartender and ordering her another martini. She considers telling him that she actually hates martinis, but he's a stranger, and she's a stranger, he probably won't even care, and she's in no mood for deep, profound bullshit.

"No. Just dropping by for a visit," she replies, her words laced with bitterness. She flashes him a quick smile, hoping to lighten the mood, and when he smiles back, she knows exactly where this is heading.

There's not much more conversation after that; just a few, pointless sentences uttered here and there, and then he offers to walk her home, and somehow, maybe because of all the alcohol in her system or because the void can't stop gnawing tonight, she ends up following him home instead, not even hesitating when he unlocks his front door and kisses her passionately.

There's something heady, something intoxicating about the hands currently attempting to unhook her bra. There's something wild, something wicked about the fact that she has no idea what his name is – all she knows is that she can taste the tequila on his lips and feel the familiar tug of arousal in her body. This man, whose hands are now slipping up under the skirt that her mother likes to say makes her look like a hooker, is a mystery, and she has no intention of figuring him out. Instead she slants another slightly awkward kiss on his lips and lets out a moan.

There's comfort in this mystery.

---

It isn't going to become a problem; that's what she promises herself. The bars, the boys, it's okay – she's young. She is on her way to becoming a damn good surgeon, and she might as well enjoy herself once in awhile.

Sometimes it's different. Some nights she remembers the names; some nights she craves conversation. Occasionally she wakes up and sticks around for breakfast, always impressing her most recent conquest when she says she's in med school. A guy or two manage to get under her skin, and one is a steady boyfriend for months, leaving her content to fool around on his couch Thursday night and go out to get drinks with a few friends on Fridays, thinking all those daddy issues and that need for attention have been quenched.

But he, of course, moves on at some point, mainly because she appears stagnated. She moans and she whines and she drinks too much, but her grades stay good and her mother keeps reminding her that it isn't too late to choose another path in life. She laughs, bitterly, at the irony: she will be a surgeon, and she will be a good surgeon, but even in spite of that, there's still that stupid void.

She falls in love only to crash and burn shortly after, and she toys with the pages of one of her old diaries, trying to remember exactly when she gave up on being the good girl.

She remembers the last time she saw her father; she remembers various things from her childhood, and she makes an attempt or two at piecing those memories together, wanting to form a picture of Meredith Grey and stick to that picture. She makes a list of the things she wants to do before she dies, but she scratches all the words over, the pen breaking in the process, because she just isn't that kind of girl.

Issues. That's the kind of girl she is: the girl with a whole bunch of issues that she has to carry around, and most of the time, she just makes a light joke out of it and pretends that everything, her life and the world, is just a theater and nothing she can do will make much of a difference anyway.

So she talks to strangers. She never really says all that much; she goes on thinking that she isn't all that complicated and there isn't much to say. Not many layers to Meredith, just a lot of fucked-upness and neediness – and of course that damn void that gnaws away when she's had a bad day and feels particularly lonely. Like tonight.

She scratches her nails over his back, thinking back to the first time she lay like this, pinned beneath her first boyfriend, and she closes her eyes, counting how many times she's been in this very position; been so intimate, so close to another person and yet felt so hollow inside.

This guy is the tenth, and she lets him invite her out for dinner, thinking in her mind that it'll be a way to celebrate. She never shows up and she doesn't answer any of his calls, and eventually, he stops calling and she starts partying again, knowing that there's no reason to figure out who she is.

There's comfort in this mystery.

---

She feels silly, ridiculous, because this isn't really the kind of relationship they have. They have sex and they make love and their conversations satiate the hunger for knowledge about him and she truly believes he's the love of his life, even if it took so much hurt to get to this place.

But it still isn't the kind of relationship where she can break down after a long day, after losing a patient on the table and telling the estranged daughter afterward and worrying about her period being late. There's arms encircling her, holding her close, and she cries all over his shirt, holding, no, clinging onto him. He whispers sweet words about how everything will be okay and that he is there and will always be there, and she actually believes him, which makes her cry harder.

This is it; this is what she's been waiting for all of her life. He's her McDreamy, and she spends every night asleep in his arms, waking up to see his face in the morning, and lately, she has been so happy. There has been no need for the boys, for the bars; she hasn't been Meredith with the daddy issues or Meredith who fell in love with a married man – she has simply been happy. But right now, everything is too much, and he is too much, too tender and caring, too wonderful and everything she has ever dreamed of, and she can't stop crying.

"Sh, Meredith, baby, it'll be okay," he murmurs the words softly, kissing her temple and holding her like she's about to break, and if she weren't crying, she'd be laughing – after being strong for so many years, she's breaking down when she has no reason to.

"Don't leave," she begs desperately, letting that neediness she hates so very much shine through, and he tightens his grip on her, shaking his head.

"I'm never leaving. You're stuck with me. Always."

And she buries her head in his neck, letting more sobs wreck her body; he keeps comforting, keeps saying all the right words. It happens, maybe because she lets her guard down, maybe because he's Derek and she loves him, or maybe because he says he loves her, even with all her dark and twisty sides. No matter why, it happens. She lets it spill, lets it all spill: all her insecurities and her fears; she tells him about the void and the hollow feeling and how much she wishes her father would reach out to her after all these years and that she had some way of proving to her mother that she is going to be a damn good surgeon; she talks on and on, stifling sobs occasionally and only looking him in the eye whenever she's said something that's harsh towards him, but he stays next to her, listening, rubbing soothing circles on her back with his hands.

"Still don't want to leave?" she asks, cynically, when everything is said and all her cards are out on the table and she's trying to dry her tears off in her sleeve. A small smile tugs at his lips.

"I'm never leaving," he repeats simply. It's a promise, and she knows that he'll keep it if she lets him. "Everything will be okay."

And she isn't sure everything is going to be okay, or that she even wants everything to be okay, but when he picks her up and carries her into the bedroom, she snuggles closer and whispers his name drowsily, feeling the void inside her shrink a little.

There's comfort in finally sharing this mystery with someone.


End file.
